9
THE SNOWSTORM HIT a few weeks after Laurence more or less stopped talking to Patricia. She woke up with Berkley curled between her bent elbow and her shoulder, and looked out her window without getting all the way out of bed. The ground and the sky mirrored each other: two sheets of white.
Patricia shuddered and almost pulled the covers over her head. Instead, she took the hottest shower she could bear and put on her long johns for the first time this year. They no longer fit.
Patricia’s mother was already on-site and her father was multi-focusing with his laptop and a stack of folders, so at least Patricia didn’t have to talk to her parents. But Roberta came down halfway through breakfast and just stared at Patricia without talking, and that was creepy, and at last Roberta went off to Ellenburg High and Patricia was left hoping against hope that Canterbury Academy was having a snow day.
No such luck. Patricia got to school in her dad’s sedan, and almost broke her neck on the slushy steps. People threw snowballs with gravel in them at Patricia’s head, but she didn’t bother to turn and look—that would just be presenting a better target.
“Miss Delfine,” a smooth, deep voice said behind Patricia in the near-empty hallway. (A lot of kids had stayed home after all.) Patricia turned to see Mr. Rose, the guidance counselor with the knuckle face, looming in a pin-striped slate suit.
“Umm. Yes?”
Mr. Rose had never made much of an impression, though everybody said he was the only decent authority figure at this cruddy school. But today he seemed dark and towering, a foot taller than normal. Patricia shrugged this off as just snow-day nerves.
“I was hoping to discuss something with you,” Mr. Rose said in a deeper than usual voice. “Perhaps you could come by my office when you get a moment. I find that I have an unusually free schedule today.”
Patricia said “Sure,” and dashed off to first period. The school was half-empty, and the snow kept blinding her through the windows. It all felt like a weird dream. Her first class was Math, and Mr. Gluckman wasn’t even trying to teach—everybody just goofed off.
Her second period teacher hadn’t even made it to school, so it became a free period, after ten minutes of perfunctory waiting. Patricia drifted toward Mr. Rose’s office.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I will keep this brief.” Mr. Rose’s teeth clacked inside his dry white lips. This wasn’t the Mr. Rose Patricia was used to. He sat straighter in his gray chair, hands folded on his walnut desk, with its cartoon walrus pencil holder. Behind him, there was a wall of books on child development.
Patricia nodded. Mr. Rose took a deep breath.
“I have a message for you,” he said, “from the Tree.”
“The what—?” Patricia felt sure this was a dream. The pale world, the empty school—she was still in bed with Berkley.
“Well, not the Tree exactly. But the power the Tree represents. I know you’ve waited a long time to fulfill your purpose as a witch. You’ve been more than patient. So I have been tasked with informing you that your wait is almost over. The secrets will soon be yours.”
Patricia couldn’t breathe. Her hands were gripping her chair arms. She felt hot around her face and yet freezing in her extremities. Her blood was all going to her head, as if it were preparing to separate from her body. Her feet kicked each other.
“What?” she said at last. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Umm…” She was on the verge of babbling, but reined it in. This was important witch business. “Um. Who are you?” She would not have disbelieved, necessarily, if he’d claimed to be Merlin or something.
“I’m your school guidance counselor.” Mr. Rose smiled with one lip. “I’m just passing along a message, that’s all. This is the only time you and I will ever discuss this matter.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“You will be receiving instructions soon. In the meantime, there is one task you must perform.”
“Umm…” Stop saying umm, Patricia told herself. “Umm, is it like a test? Or an assignment? Do I have to prove myself worthy?”
“You have already proved everything you needed to prove. No, this is merely a task. But an unpleasant one. There is a boy at this school who will grow up to be a great enemy of nature, and a persecutor of the magical community. You already know him. His name is Laurence Armstead. He may have asked to see a demonstration of magic recently. He may even have asked you to show him the Tree. Is this so?”